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pyroyearner · 4 years

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Hear me out, dabi teaching you how to touch yourself. 👌

omfg anon please he’d fuckin live for this shit!!!

❅ cw: 18+, kinda dubcon/manipulation, dabi’s a lil mean

❅ words: 1.9k

You’ve been living with the league for a few months now—Toga had found you somewhere, on the streets cowered in some dirty back alley or something, he’s not really sure, he can’t remember—and Dabi’s been having a hard time keeping his hands to himself ever since.

He’s always finding excuses to touch you, dragging heated fingertips down your arm, always slightly hotter than normal body temperature, or placing a large hand on the small of your back as he guides you from one room to another, a blazing handprint searing through the thin material of your shirt.

Can you really blame him, though? He can’t help it; it isn’t his fault you’re so fucking cute.

And he’s always got those sapphire eyes on you, too, couldn’t pull them from you even if he wanted to, gaze instinctively drawn to you every time you’re in the same room as him, an addict desperately chasing his next fix.

He definitely would have fucked you already, he’s absolutely sure of it, if Toga wasn’t attached to your hip 24/7. As a result, he knows he has to make the most of every minute alone he gets with you, and when you come trudging down the stairs in the middle of the night with you lips set in a deep pout, looking absolutely exhausted—pretty eyes sunken into your skull and hair mussed up in a way that almost looks artful on you—well.

It makes him want to fucking ruin you.

You’ve been on edge recently, and he’s 90% sure he knows why. Your rooms are right next to each other; it isn’t like he can’t hear those soft little noises you make in the middle of the night, breathy little whimpers that eventually morph into soft whines, Dabi listening the entire time as your pleasure quickly fades into frustration.

He pities you; the poor thing, she doesn’t even know how to get herself off properly. It’s definitely beginning to take a toll on you, he thinks, as you drop down on the couch next to him, slumping a little, eyebrows permanently knitted and eyes glaring at the TV.

Honestly, it would be a disservice to you if he didn’t help you.

“What’s a’matter with you?” he asks, glancing over at you, eyes indifferent, just the right amount of curiosity sown into his voice.

Your body stiffens for a moment, completely frozen next to him, before it relaxes again, a little huff of annoyance leaving your lips.

“Nothing,” you mumble, picking at your cuticles, pout still etched into your face.

“It’s not nothing, and we both know it,” he sighs, schooling his expression into one that mimics concern, just a hint sprinkled over his usual apathetic look, careful not to overdo it on the way his forehead wrinkles just a little, like he’s genuinely worried about you.

Head quirking to the side in question, your eyes narrow slightly, brow furrowing.

“You’re having trouble getting yourself off, aren’t you?”

“What?” You choke on the word, sputtering and coughing as you vigorously shake your head, desperately trying to wheeze out the word no, to deny it, and he chuckles, comforting you, tells you it’s nothing to be embarrassed of, promises you it’s nothing to be ashamed of, and—

“I can help, y’know,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders, like he’s offering you an extra pen and not an orgasm.

But those four words force a sharp intake of breath through your nose, eyes widening as you stare at him, your heart beginning to race while warmth settles deep in the pit of your stomach, already beginning to coil.

And he knows, knows the smirk curling on his lips doesn’t go well with his mask of casual concern, but he can’t help it, not when the softest, neediest little whine slips from your lips, pupils blown and eyes glazed as you stare at him with pure unadulterated want.

He’s almost got you.

“Whaddya say?” he asks quietly, almost tenderly, upper body turning towards you as nimble fingers tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Hmm?”

“I-I—I don’t—I’m not—”

“Let me help,” he urges. “Let me make you feel good,”

And it’s so gentle, so sincere, his body marginally leaning towards yours, enticing, that your head’s nodding before you’ve given it permission to, bottom lip caught between your teeth as you suck on it unsurely, gazing at him through your lashes.

You end up between his spread legs, on the floor, his large hands holding your thighs wide open as he stares at your reflections in the mirror propped up against his wall, dark azure eyes slowly sliding down your body as you try in vain to bury your head in his neck, face burning with embarrassment.

He got this mirror specifically for this occasion, he tells you, thought it’d be the best way to teach you, he says.

A soft, pitiful whimper escapes your lips, soaking into the skin of his neck as you nuzzle against him. He had been…anticipating this?

“Don’t hide,” he chastises softly with a click of his tongue, voice vibrating against your back and breaking through your thoughts. “How are you supposed to learn if you aren’t watching? Look at how pretty this pussy is,”

Your entire body jolts as the rough pad of his index finger skims over your clit, two fingers almost caressing your slit, down and then back up again, pulling his hand back slightly to admire the way your slick gleams on his fingers in the dim light of his bedroom.

“Already so wet for me, huh?” he breathes, lips tickling the shell of your ear. “Do you think about me when you touch yourself, hmm? Do you think about my fingers? My cock?”

Oh, it’s so embarrassing, your entire body flushing at his naughty, invasive questions, and they send another intense rush of warmth to your core, bitter shame settling on your tongue.

“Answer me,” he commands, voice firm but quiet, giving your clit a superficial slap that has a loud cry spilling from your throat.

“Yes!” you squeak, word muffled by his skin. “Y-Yes,”

“Yes what?”

Please don’t make me say it, you want to whine, tears of humiliation flooding your eyes. Another slap lands against your clit, harder this time, making your back arch against him.

“Yes, yes, I-I think of you when I touch myself,” you whimper, whole body trembling, eyes shut tightly to keep the tears stinging your eyes from leaking out, wishing his mocking coo in response didn’t make your stomach swoop the way it does.

Praises fall from his lips as his calloused fingers rub small, quick circles into the sensitive bud, interspersed with your sweet, breathy little moans, telling you how good you are, such a good little girl for him, how he fucking knew it, fucking knew that you were thinking of him every night while you desperately stuff your little cunt full of your fingers, the words whispered into your hair as you smush your face against his neck.

“C’mon baby, look at yourself. You’re so beautiful,” his words taper off into a hoarse, quiet whine as his fingers run along your slit again.

You peak out from your safe spot against him, unable to help the gasp that escapes your throat as your eyes connect with your reflections. Hooded eyes find yours, practically glowing, breath hot against your cheek, his chin hooked over your shoulder.

He looks like a fucking god like this, smoldering gaze burning a hole right through to your very soul, ebony hair tousled just right, voice just a hint deeper than normal, husky and guttural.

Watch me, he instructs, your eyes immediately snapping to the apex of your thighs reflected in the mirror, practically mesmerized as he sinks a finger into your fluttering little hole, a soft whine breaking in your chest.

“Shh,” he hushes you. “Watch me,”

Pumping his finger a few times, he works your cunt open enough for him to comfortably insert a second, your head falling back against his shoulder at the pleasant stretch. A chuckle vibrates in his chest, fingers thrusting twice before he curls them, laughing fully as your body jolts.

“Mm, think I found something,” he mutters in your ear, curling his fingers again and smirking when your emit a sharp, involuntary cry. “Yep, definitely found something,”

“Oh God,” you breathe, hips rolling a little to meet his fingers mid-thrust as he works up a steady rhythm.

“Feel good?”

“Uh-huh,” you nod fervently, the back of your head resting against his collarbone, lips parted slightly, eyes slipping shut. “So good,”

“Perfect. Now, do it yourself,”

Your eyes snap open as he removes his hand completely, whimpers of protest falling from your lips as you shake your head, cute, pathetic little ‘no!’s catching in your throat. Sapphire, dark and shimmering, stares at you expectantly through the mirror, Dabi raising an eyebrow when you don’t immediately start moving.

But it’s awkward and you’re clumsy, heat seeping into your cheeks as you fumble a little, stiff movements a stark contrast to his effortless fluidity.

He tries in vain to guide you, delegates what to do and exactly how to do it, but your wrist is beginning to ache, your fingers beginning to cramp, sick of unintentionally edging yourself.

“I can’t,” you wail loudly, frustrated tears blurring your vision. “I can’t, I can’t, not like you do, Dabi, please, t-touch me,”

“Aw, don’t be a greedy little brat,” but he’s chuckling as his fingers snake down your body.

It’s cute, he tells you, voice laced with condescension, that you can’t do anything for yourself, slapping your hand away and pushing two of his fingers into your dripping little pussy again, a pathetic little moan of relief spilling from your lips, body melting back into his.

“Can you at least play with your clit for me, baby?” His tone is almost patronizing, like he’s unsure if you’ll even be able to manage such a simple task, and you whimper out his name, nodding quickly as your fingers find the swollen bud.

He sounds unaffected, for the most part, and you’d probably think he was, if it weren’t for his cock, hot and hard and throbbing through his flannel PJ pants and pressed flush against your back. He’s rutting against you just a tiny bit, hips rocking against you in miniscule motions as his gaze focuses on his fingers.

“Open your eyes, angel, and watch my hand, yeah? I won’t always be around to make you cum, you know,”

You do know that, you do.

But it’s hard. It’s hard to watch him, to concentrate on his actions, to even keep your eyes fully open and in focus when they’re continuously rolling back in your head, broken whimpers and high pitched whines leaking uncontrollably from your throat, climbing in volume with each harsh thrust of his fingers, with each swipe over your clit of yours.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he praises, voice strained ever so slightly. “Be a good girl, make a nice mess all over my fingers,”

And so you do, pathetically desperate to be good for him, gushing on his fingers only a few seconds later as your pussy clenches, mewling out his name like a mantra.

“What’re you gonna do next time, when you need to cum and I’m not around?” he asks, after your breathing has begun to calm.

“Doesn’t matter,” you reply simply, eyes still closed, body gone boneless against him. “I’ll never be able to do it as good as you can anyway, so why bother?”

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